


tiny giants made of tinier giants

by sakurablossomcreamlatte



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Post-Episode: s02e11 Not What He Seems, Some angst, Stan's protective of his kiddos, and stubborn old men who just can't get along, just wanted to write some Dip and Fordy bonding tbh, now featuring: Stangst, set shortly after NWHS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27358735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakurablossomcreamlatte/pseuds/sakurablossomcreamlatte
Summary: Ford gets a visitor at two AM, and Stan has to lay down some boundaries.
Relationships: Dipper Pines & Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 32
Kudos: 126





	1. even needs have needs

**Author's Note:**

> I just love Dipper bonding with his grunks and I wanted to write some fluff and feels for him and Ford because Ford's a gloriously complex character and there's so much to unpack here. also a chance to indulge/share a couple of my Pines parents headcanons
> 
> (this work was inspired by [this really sweet comic](https://rosesanddoodl3s.tumblr.com/post/627857059390586880/more-ford-and-dipper-bonding-because-its-my) by [rosesanddoodl3s](https://rosesanddoodl3s.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, please go and check it out!)

Ford’s been back in his own world for approximately thirty-two hours, and yet it’s almost like he never left - sitting at his desk in his old room (minus the obnoxious millennial decorations Stan's employee has added), scribbling in the back of his second journal and muttering hissed curses between his teeth. The Oregon sky sits inky and indigo outside the panes of his window, studded with stars, and despite their apathetic, twinkling benevolence Ford can’t shake the feeling that they’re watching him. 

It’s not something he can just let go of after thirty years on the run between dimensions. 

On top of snatching away his chance to finally take out that demon once and for all, mercilessly and swiftly as he was powerless to stop it - his idiot brother’s activation of the portal literally created an interdimensional rift. He spent most of the day figuring out a way to contain it... and subsequently wrestling the slippery splashes of interdimensional matter around the portal room into the glass orb he was able to create. At least he’s in good enough shape to do so, despite his age - not that Stan would have a clue, if the beer gut he’s developed over the years is anything to go by. 

He crosses out one equation and scribbles another, tugging at his hair in frustration. All that stands between Bill and his goals now is a veil of worryingly breakable glass. 

There has to be something else he can use to protect everyone until he can find something stronger. Project Mentem, maybe? Would the machine still even work? It would probably need some level of repair after thirty years of disuse - not that he’d even used it successfully the first time round. 

A tentative knock on the door jolts him from the letters and numbers that are starting to spin on the pages in front of his eyes, and he really hopes it’s not Stan - but then again, Stan’s not really the type to knock either. Brow creasing, Ford turns to face the door. “Yes?” 

The door slowly creaks open, and he can’t stop himself from raising an eyebrow at the sight of the boy twin - _Dipper, that’s it_ \- hovering apprehensively in the doorway, clutching what looks like the comforter from his bed. “Um, Great-Uncle Ford?” 

“Dipper?” Ford frowns again, closing the journal and setting his pen down as he checks his watch. It’s after two AM. “What are you doing up?” 

  
Dipper hesitantly crosses the threshold, and as he steps into the dim light of the room Ford notices that his eyes are red - and a little puffy. “I, uh…” he averts his gaze, biting his lip, “...couldn’t sleep.” 

“I… see.” Ford can feel his heart sink a little. Dipper and Mabel were certainly a lot to take in upon his arrival back in this dimension, considering the thought of descendants hadn’t even crossed his mind - but they seemed assured of themselves, despite the way Dipper had almost fainted and/or thrown up upon discovering that yes, Ford was the one who wrote the journal he was clutching in his hands. The bright-eyed expression of hope and determination the boy had turned to him with as he’d pulled the memory eraser gun from his rucksack was a stark contrast to the one on his face now, and Ford’s struck out of nowhere with a sudden urge to protect him - his sister, too. He’s only known them for a day and he already knows he never wants to see them cry. Ever. 

Stan might want him to stay away from them, but he certainly can’t stop him from caring about them - and if Dipper’s down here of his own volition, Ford certainly won’t push him away. “Did you have a bad dream?” 

“Something like that.” Dipper hugs the comforter to himself a little tighter, and Ford makes a decision, rising from his desk and crossing the room to take a seat on the couch. The kid’s wide-eyed gaze follows him, and Ford simply pats the cushion next to him as an invitation. 

Dipper comes to sit on the couch next to him, tugging the worn, patched blanket around his shoulders. There’s still something hesitant in the movements of his limbs, like he’s holding himself back, and something twinges uncomfortably within Ford’s chest. He doesn’t want either of the children to feel like that around him - but he just wants to protect them from the dangers Stan’s opened their world up to, regardless of how inadvertent it might have been, and for that he probably needs to keep his distance. Even now he feels like he’s breaking some arbitrary rule, with Dipper perched on the couch at his side - before a wave of indignation washes it away. It’s _Ford’s_ house, damn it, not Stan’s - despite what he may have told them… and everyone else in this town. 

“Any reason you came to me rather than Stan…?” Ford ventures. He’s absolutely not against it - if anything, he feels strangely honoured that one of the kids came to him seemingly looking for comfort - but considering how long they’ve known him against how long they’ve known Stan, he has to wonder why. Dipper simply stares at his socked feet instead. 

_Were ten year olds always this… small?_ Both the boy and his sister barely come up to Ford’s - and Stan’s - elbows. _Are they just short for their age? What were we like compared to Dad?_

He wonders if it’s a good thing that he’s struggling to remember. 

“I….” Dipper starts, and then seemingly gives up on himself, thin shoulders slumping with a sigh. “Sorry. I just - I dunno. I don’t think Grunkle Stan’s… mad at me, as such, but I kind of… said some things to him yesterday.” He averts his eyes, curling a little further in on himself. 

Of course. Ford’s still smarting at the idea that his brother claimed his name as his own (and almost certainly amassed an impressive criminal record under it). Stan obviously cares about these kids - that part’s so glaringly obvious that even Ford can’t deny it - but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s essentially betrayed them. 

“Well,” Ford concedes, “it’s… a lot to take in. I think you’re handling it better than I might have at the age of ten.”

Dipper looks up at him, stricken. “I’m twelve.” 

Ford makes a mental note to correct his journal entry on the boy later. “I see. My apologies.” 

His great-nephew (and that feels so bizarre to think, knowing that less than forty-eight hours ago he wasn’t even aware of the kid’s existence) just deflates even further. “It’s... okay, I guess. I know I’m short.” He pulls his knees up to his chest. “I mean, it’s just really annoying right now. Grunkle Stan’s really tall - and so are you, actually - and so’s my dad. I guess I can’t be short forever, but… I dunno.” 

Right, their father. Shermie’s boy - David. 

_“How is Shermie, anyway?” Ford ventures, and no sooner have the words left his mouth than he wishes he hadn’t asked - because at the mention of their elder brother’s name Stan’s face immediately falls, any light that might have remained leaving his eyes, and that tells Ford pretty much everything he needs to know._

“What’s your father like?” 

The question leaves Ford’s lips before he even really has the time to think about how random it is. He hasn’t even seen David since… what, Thanksgiving in third year of college? His nephew was barely four or five years old at that point, a rambunctious child with big brown eyes and a mop of chestnut-coloured curls who gleefully ran around their parents’ apartment while Shermie chased after him, throwing out frantic, stuttered apologies in their dad’s direction. It’s crossed Ford’s mind every now and then while jumping between dimensions, but he’s always pushed it away just as quickly, not wanting to dwell on the pain of everything else he threw away the second he shook Bill’s hand. 

Dipper’s seemingly just as taken aback by the question as Ford is, and when he lifts his head to look up at him, brown eyes wide beneath his fluffy chestnut fringe, for a second it’s almost like he’s looking at a carbon copy of David himself… although he thankfully hasn’t inherited the infamous Pines nose. “My dad?” 

“Ah - yes.” Ford coughs, averts his own eyes. “I suppose - well, Mom babysat for Shermie sometimes.” 

Dipper’s brow lifts a little in the light of recognition, before furrowing again in thought. “He’s…” he trails off, visibly searching for the right adjective. “Nice. Kinda goofy, I guess. Mom always says that’s where Mabel gets it from.” 

“What does he do?” Ford presses. 

“He’s a software programmer.” Dipper’s shoulders relax, if only by a fraction. “And Mom’s a lawyer.” 

“A software programmer, huh?” A memory of Fiddleford holding up a laptop prototype with bright, shining eyes briefly floats to the surface, and a stinging pang of regret bounces painfully against the inside of Ford’s ribcage, and he tries to focus on the child sitting next to him - family that he didn’t even know he had. It’s more than he expected, and more than he could have asked for. “Does he work a lot?” 

“Yeah,” Dipper answers, kicking his feet under the seat of the couch. “He has his own business, but he works from home a couple of days a week - and he tries cooking dinner sometimes, but he’s not great at it.” His shoulders twitch beneath his blanket, the shadow of a laugh bubbling up. “One time he made us spaghetti sauce with ramen noodles - it was so gross. When Mom got home we ended up ordering Chinese food instead.”

Ford has to chuckle at that. “You know Shermie was never a great cook, either.” 

Dipper relaxes a little more, and his shoulder bumps against Ford’s elbow as he leans a tiny bit closer. “I don’t remember a whole lot about Grandpa Shermie,” he admits, hesitantly. “Mom always says he really loved us, though. And Dad always took us to the planetarium on our birthday, because he said that was his favourite thing to do with his dad when he was a kid.” 

And even if Ford’s trying to stave off his own looming anxiety about the very real possibility of the world as they know it ending, there’s something in his nephew’s words that lifts his own battle-scarred heart by just a touch. Maybe it’s knowing now that for all he left behind him when he hightailed it out of Backupsmore with two PhDs and a fat research grant cheque, back home Shermie turned out to be a good man, bringing the happy, excitable child Ford once knew as his nephew along that path with him. Seeing that David apparently grew up to be a good man himself, if the little smile that tugs at the corner of Dipper’s mouth when he talks about his parents is anything to go by. 

_At least someone in this family of ours turned out to be remotely functional._

Ford’s next question emerges a little more easily, the distance between them slowly beginning to close in fractional increments. “Did they give you your nickname?” 

The question had already arisen when Stan was catching him up on the family history - the name Mabel is a little old-fashioned, although sweet in its charm, but surely nobody would ever call their child Dipper legitimately? - and Stan had simply shrugged and grunted something along the lines of, _‘Look at the little goofus’s forehead. It’s like someone spilled hot sauce on his face.’_

He would, if the kid would stop vibrating with anxiety/pen clicks long enough to sit still. Not that it was even necessary, with the carefully inked sketch - which, sure enough, was a dead ringer for the Big Dipper - he’d found flipping through the third journal under the entry titled, _‘Your new author!’._

He’s ten - no, twelve. Ford won’t hold it against him. 

Back in the present, Dipper nods. “Dad said Grandpa pointed it out to him when we were little and then he couldn’t unsee it, and then they both started calling me Dipper and it just… stuck.” He hugs his knees. “I feel like it fits. My real name’s kind of dumb, anyway.” 

There’s probably not much that could be dumber than naming a pair of twins Stanford and Stanley, but Ford decides not to push it. “Well, it’s certainly unique.” 

Dipper shrugs and averts his gaze, and a silence falls between them… but after a few moments, there’s a soft weight against Ford’s arm as he leans against him. 

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts his arm to rest it around the boy’s shoulders. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s expecting - but Dipper doesn’t jolt, or flinch away. Instead, he simply shifts to rest his head against Ford’s chest with a soft exhale. 

That in itself can only be a testament to the kind of fathers Shermie and David turned out to be. When Mabel threw her little sweater-clad arms around his neck earlier that night and chirped, ' _goodnight, Grunkle Ford!'_ , the wave of longing and affection that surged through his chest was so powerful that it both ached and almost took him off his feet at the same time. 

He’d forgotten what love - and the affection that goes hand in hand with it - felt like, and in one simple hug from a niece he didn’t even know he had, it had come rushing back with all the force of a tsunami. These kids - Mabel especially - are so strangely warm and open, with each other, and with Stan and that young man - what was his name, Zeus? no, Soos - and now with Ford himself, too. And Dipper could barely make eye contact or stop shaking, but in the middle of the night, worn down by exhaustion - and he hasn’t missed the shadows under the boy’s eyes, either - he’s far more subdued, seemingly removed from the stammering, gagging ball of pen-clicking anxiety that had first greeted him after he’d set foot back in this world. 

  
Either way, they’re certainly a far cry from himself and Stan. 

Belatedly, Ford realises that his eyes are stinging a little, and he awkwardly clears his throat. Dipper doesn’t say anything. Beneath his fringe, his eyes are distant, and Ford can only wonder what he’s thinking. 

“Is…” he winces at how his own voice breaks the silence, but they’ve already crossed this line. He doesn’t even know what it means to be an uncle, but if something’s bothering the kid, he wants to help. “Is there... another reason you can’t sleep, Dipper?” 

This town’s fascinating, but it’s also dangerous, and in those six years he lived here Ford had more than his fair share of close shaves. Dipper’s thin arms are covered by his blanket right now, but during the day, the thin lines and dots of scars and scrapes that traverse his skin haven’t escaped Ford’s attention. 

  
Ford can only wonder what he’s seen, and he hopes to God it’s not the same thing that sparked his own suffocating paranoia. 

He can feel Dipper’s shoulders stiffen beneath his forearm, and for a few long moments, another silence descends. 

When Dipper does answer, his voice is quiet, partially muffled by his comforter. “S-sometimes it’s just…” he trails off, shifting slightly against Ford’s chest. “Difficult.” 

It doesn’t exactly provide much of an explanation, and Ford sighs. It was probably a step too far to expect Dipper to open up right away - if anything, he’s grateful for the way he’s here with him now, even if it’s explicitly against Stan’s wishes. 

Dipper’s voice breaks the quiet once again. “Anyway… I wanna know more about you. Like…” he trails off, searching. “What were you and Grunkle Stan like when you were twelve?” 

A laugh bubbles up in Ford’s chest at the innocence of the question. It’s a lifetime ago now, like Stan had said. Before they thought anything could ever break them apart, when they were just two identical best friends - brothers, even - with a dream of leaving their shitty little town. 

“Didn’t Stan already tell you? He was a troublemaker and I was… well, a nerd, I suppose.” 

Dipper leans against his side, relaxing once again - and it’s a relief. If they have to do this on his terms, that’s fine. Hopefully the kid might open up to him when he’s ready, whenever that may be. “I mean… we heard Stan’s side of the story. I guess I wanted to hear yours.” 

Ford casts his mind back. “Well, Stan wasn’t wrong - he _was_ a troublemaker.” A chuckle. “But then again, I suppose I wasn’t entirely innocent either…” 

The stories flow from him more easily than he would expect them to - for some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much to tell Dipper, who listens, giggles here and there, occasionally interjects with some quip or aside that shows Ford that for all that’s happened in the last forty or fifty years, there are parts of his brother that haven’t necessarily changed. With each story he recalls, hazy days gone by that leave his lips as a shared memory, Dipper slumps a little further into his lap - and in some complete paradox, the heavier the kid rests against him, the lighter his heart feels. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind as he’s regaling Dipper with the tale of Fiddleford’s disastrous attempt at a college open mic night - guest starring that godforsaken banjo - he wonders if it might be worth revising the entry he wrote about the kid in the third journal. 

It’s still painful to think about Fiddleford, though, and Ford hopes that one day he’ll get the chance to apologise. 

Even so, it still comes back to Stan. It often does. And for some reason, it’s easier to separate them in his mind - Stanley, the goofy, scrappy little smartass with half his front teeth missing who always pulled Ford up by his armpits when bullies knocked him down and tried to pin most of his mishaps on Shanklin the possum, and Stan, the exhausted, hollow-eyed stranger in a hooded jacket who showed up on his doorstep on that fateful day in 1982… who’s evidently reinvented himself as the man they now know as Stanford Pines, with a fez perched atop his now-grey hair and lies and blatant falsehoods falling from his lips. 

“It’s kind of crazy imagining Grunkle Stan as a kid,” Dipper murmurs. He looks like he’s having a progressively harder time trying to keep his eyes open. “Like… Mabel and I only ever knew him as this weird old scam artist guy.” 

Ford can feel the smile tug at his lips. Dipper and Mabel are going to grow up one day, too, and he hopes he’ll be able to witness it. “Well, we were all children once.”

It’s like he’s taking a back seat to himself as he tells Dipper these stories from another life. If he thinks about Stan and what they’ve become, it hurts - even if it’s dulled into a detached ache over the years, the occasional wave comes, raw and fresh, and it’s sharp like a knife. If he thinks about Stanley, it still hurts - but the edges are softened by the miasma that nostalgia casts over everything, and that’s not quite as painful. At least back then, he knew some sort of happiness, and at least he can vaguely recall what it felt like. 

He can’t stop the chuckle that escapes him at the memory of Stan trying to convince their mother that the person who set off the whole school’s sprinklers and took off into the distance shouting _‘that’s how Stan Pines does it, suckers!’_ was someone trying to frame him, and the way she’d absolutely eviscerated him in response. 

“...and that was the last time Stanley ever lied to our mom.” 

There’s no response from Dipper this time - no giggle, or eye-roll, or dry quip - and he looks down to see that the kid’s drifted off in his lap, head pillowed against Ford’s thigh as he breathes, slow and soft. 

Well. In fairness, that was pretty much what he came down here for. Objective achieved… more or less. 

Tentatively, he runs his hand over Dipper’s hair. It’s a complete bird’s nest - he obviously doesn’t brush it that often - but it’s thick and fluffy, just like David’s had been as a child. The heavy curtain of Mabel’s long tresses that had hit him in the face when she’d hugged him had been more or less the same. 

_Twins run in the family,_ he’d written in the journal. It’s a comforting thought - if anything, knowing that they hopefully won’t turn out like him and Stan. 

He hadn’t wanted to throw it away - neither of them had, but Stan had no idea what he was dealing with, and if he had any inkling of just how dangerous the forces he was messing with were, most likely didn’t care. Irresponsible and knuckleheaded to a fault, from childhood to now - and honestly, probably to eternity. 

As a scientist, Ford is used to determining things by probability and likelihood. Each situation has a predetermined number of potential outcomes… but sometimes, something greater - fate, the universe - has a hand in things. And maybe this time, she’s granted Ford a second chance of sorts. There’s a second generation of Pines twins, and they might have the potential to be better than he and Stan ever were. 

“Alright, my boy,” he mutters to the one currently sleeping in his lap. “Let’s get you back into your own bed before Stan notices.”


	2. we talked about nothing which was more than I wanted you to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford encounters Stan in the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couldn't resist adding this omake...

Even before he was thrown through an interdimensional gateway with nothing but the clothes on his back, Ford had never really been fully able to picture himself having a family. It had crossed his mind briefly as he watched the burly lumberjack - _Sam? No, Dan, that was it, I wonder if he's still around?_ \- build his home, piece by piece, but even so he could never quite put a face to any potential life partner - or even any children. It just didn’t seem to fit at the time…

...and somehow he’s still here over thirty years later, carrying a child - a _descendant,_ no less, his own flesh and blood - to bed after the end of a long day. For all his ambition and apparent intelligence, Dipper barely weighs anything, and the upper half of his diminutive frame rests neatly against the crook of Ford’s elbow. He could probably carry the kid on one arm if he needed to. It feels almost… natural, somehow, like there was a part of him that was missing until this point in time.

There’s something within him that almost wants the moment to last.

And then, of course, even though it’s the middle of the goddamn night, Stan comes rounding the corner, his slippers making muffled _slap_ sounds against the floorboards.

Ford’s steps falter as Stan stops and peers forward, squinting at the little blanket-wrapped form in his arms - and as realisation dawns, his face sinks into a scowl. 

“Thought I told you to stay away from them.” 

His brother’s voice is rough and raspy as ever, undercut with a hard edge of accusation, and Ford can feel his own features creasing in turn. He’s really not in the mood for a confrontation.

“He came to my room, Stanley. What am I supposed to do, slam the door in his face?” 

He can’t make out the finer details of Stan’s expression in the dim light of the hallway, but even so, he knows the lines in his brother’s face would have darkened, deepened. As ugly as their past is, the kids are innocents, unwittingly caught in this whole mess because of Stan's lies, and both of them know that. 

The silence of the night seems almost suffocating, until Stan finally deigns to reply. 

“Dipper’s been drivin' himself crazy tryin’ to find out who wrote those journals, Poindexter, and now you’re here it’s probably like a goddamn dream come true - of course he’s gonna come to you. And I’m not askin’,'' here, he jabs a finger in the darkened air, “I’m _tellin’_ you to keep your distance.” He folds his arms, glare hardening behind his glasses as he looks Ford right in the eye. “I saw what this place did to ya all those years ago, and if you can think about anyone other than yourself for two fuckin’ seconds you’ll understand why I don’t want him endin’ up like that.” 

_Like you._ The words don't have to be spoken to sting. 

Ford swallows the flame of anger rising from the pit of his stomach into his throat, the one that wants to tear from between his teeth to scream at Stan that maybe if he’d been able to go to his dream school and turn science fiction into science fact like he wanted - like he'd _planned_ \- things wouldn’t have ended up this way. Stan’s the one who set him on this path, and Stan’s the one who pushed him into that godforsaken portal... 

...but there’s a child asleep in his arms, completely innocent in all of this, and Ford has to forcibly remind himself that now is not the time. He adjusts his grip on Dipper’s thin limbs, and the kid shifts against his chest and mumbles something about... puppets?

Ford's not sure he wants to know.

“They sleep in the attic, don’t they?” His voice comes out steadier than the ends of his frayed nerves feel. He just wants to get the kid into his own bed, and then he can go back to trying to clean up his brother’s horrifically blind, thoughtless and irresponsibly created mess. 

Instead, Stan just holds his arms out. “Give him here. I don’t want you disturbin’ Mabel - she’s been through enough the last coupla days.” 

Ford takes a step back, defensiveness flaring in his chest as he cradles Dipper a little closer. Even if it was a shock, Mabel hadn't been anything other than her delightfully weird and effervescent self that day, and the implication that his arrival would be psychologically damaging to her stings. “Stan, you’re being ridiculous. You can’t gatekeep them forever.” At least, not while they’re all living in the same house. “If tonight’s anything to go by, they’re bound to have more questions for me - especially Dipper.” 

“I’ve been carryin’ that kid up to bed for half this goddamn summer, Ford, _I’m_ the one takin’ care of them, and I told you to _stay away from them."_ Stan steps forward to match his movement, and Ford can see that his hands are clenching into fists. “I don’t know what the _fuck_ possessed -” here, Ford winces, but Stan’s too caught up in his own self-righteous speech to notice - “you to get involved with all this, but I ain’t stupid - in fact, I’m pretty goddamn smart, despite what you might think. I know this town’s dangerous, and what you’re into is even worse.” His lips curl into a snarl, and it looks like he’s barely restraining himself from driving his fist into the wall - _classic Stan,_ Ford can’t help thinking bitterly. ”Those kids mean more to me than you could possibly imagine, and God himself help you if _any_ of that weird, dangerous shit you’re mixed up in harms a single hair on their heads.” 

“You’re the reason they're even here in the first place.” The rebuttal slips out before Ford can stop it - and it clearly lands, because Stan freezes, what little colour Ford can make out in the darkness draining from his face, and that slight crack in his brother’s defensive armour just galvanises him to keep going. “You’re not wrong, Stan - Gravity Falls _is_ dangerous, and I certainly wouldn’t have thought of allowing children to stay here. Especially not while simultaneously planning to activate a machine that could destroy the universe as we know it.” 

His retort has the desired effect. Stan’s jaw slackens, hands falling limp at his sides, and Ford takes the opportunity to manoeuvre his way past his brother. Dipper’s foot bumps Stan’s elbow, and he cringes and hopes it doesn't wake the kid, because he does _not_ have the energy to pretend everything’s fine right now - but mercifully, neither of them seem to notice, and Ford seizes his chance to get the last word in. 

“Your actions put everyone in danger - including Dipper and Mabel.” The stairs are in sight, thank God, and he doesn’t want to turn around - he wants this horrible conversation to end. “So if you really want to protect them like you say you do, the best thing you can do right now is leave me to clean up the inconceivable mess you’ve made.” 

He’s barely two stairs up when he catches the reply. 

“Hah, yeah. To bring you back.” A slight hitch of breath that could have been the ghost of a laugh, as utterly devoid of mirth as it is. “Total anticlimax, if you ask me.” 

Ford stops, foot on the next step. Dipper suddenly feels heavier in his arms, and he unconsciously tightens his grip. The landing of the attic is just in sight, and somewhere amid the swirling miasma of frustration and exasperation in his mind he distantly notices the neat, shadowed lines the moonlight’s glow casts through the stained glass window. 

It’s fact. The moon orbits the earth, the earth revolves around the sun, and after thirty years his brother's just as immature, irresponsible and boneheaded as he ever was. 

Ford inhales, exhales - and the burning anger he’s feeling doesn’t dissipate on his breath, but the action helps him retain the last shred of his composure. “Goodnight, Stanley.” 

The only response he receives is the creak of the floorboards as Stan walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! please do comment if you're feeling so inclined, I love hearing from you!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please do leave a comment if you're feeling so inclined, they absolutely make my day ♡


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